


Every Picture Tells A Story

by hanwritessolo



Series: You and Me and The Bottle Makes Three [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alcohol, Drinking, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Reader-Insert, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2017-09-28
Packaged: 2019-01-06 12:43:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12211542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanwritessolo/pseuds/hanwritessolo
Summary: Prompto's objective in this wedding changes when you came into the picture. Literally.





	Every Picture Tells A Story

This marks your third glass of champagne.

The first and second were both a toast to the newly-weds. As you watch the bride and groom—both your dearest best friends in all of Eos—soak on each other’s love and dance their fairytale evening away, you cannot contain but share their bursting happiness. Finally, after all this time, they’ve realized that they are each other’s match—the Mr. Darcy to their Elizabeth Bennet, the Han Solo to their Princess Leia. Finally, you get to witness that true love really does exist, and that the very people you hold close to your heart get to bask in that magic. Finally, you get to believe…

Well, a skeptic like you wouldn’t go  _that_ far.

In most cases, seeing is believing; but you, being married to logic for the entirety of your life, have always yearned for personal proof. All your life you’ve held only the belief that true love needs more than seeing—one has to  _experience_ it, heart and soul consumed, all five senses compromised.

And a skeptic like you who have loved and lost have been waiting to experience that searing kind of love you’re witnessing right before your eyes.

Weddings do have a peculiar way of unearthing a certain kind of loneliness and all the depressing ruminations at the most inopportune time.

Hence, this third glass of champagne you downed is a toast to your misery.

You are already so busy pouring yourself your fourth round of drink that you fail to notice the blonde photographer flop right next to the vacant seat beside you.

“Hey, look at this shot!”

You swivel in your seat and you face him, trying to make sure he is actually talking to you. There was no one else in your table—everyone happily migrated their asses over at the dance floor hours ago—so all you are able to say is: “I beg your pardon?”

He didn’t quite understand your confusion; he is slightly buzzed, and honestly, so are you. But still, he goes on to shove in your face a shot of a couple with a hilarious facial expression plastered on their faces.

“They look like they were about to sneeze on this one,” he laughs, and oh my god why is his laughter music to your ears?

“No, I think she looks like she’s choking on something, like a huge bean,” you correct, and he agrees, erupting that contagious laugh of his that you find yourself laughing along with him.

“Also, check this out,” he scrolls again in his camera and shows you another photo. This time, it’s a photo of the bride and groom caught perfectly with the most awkward look on their faces.

“Wow, now I think I have to keep this—my best friends look like they’re on the brink of orgasm,” you deadpan, and he bellows another laughter. “Gods, you’re the worst official photographer,” you lightheartedly tease.

“Hey, don’t be that way!” he playfully whines, his perfect smile still glued on his face. “I’m just showing you the funny looking ones! Here are some of the good stuff.”

He goes on to show you all the shots he took, from the prettiest of portraits to the most heartfelt candid moments of the wedding. His photos exhibit so much  _life_ , and you didn’t waste a breath to tell him how impressed you are. He is beaming, elated and pleased, and you feel satisfied seeing different colors of happiness sweep across his face. You both talked for hours on end, and half of the time was spent on fits of laughter—him making a conscious effort to crack you up with all his other funny shots, you being comfortably silly while trying your very best not to get distracted by his strange blue eyes, and his cute nose, and his little freckles, and basically everything that his beautiful face has to offer.

“But personally, this is my favorite,” he finally tells you, and he shows you a photo of a face you know so well, a smile painted in a face like they are truly and genuinely happy.

“That’s… me.”

“Yup,” he grins proudly, like he’s boasting a masterpiece. “See your smile right there? So unreal.”

The heat rises in your cheeks, the same way you always do when anyone gives you a compliment. But this time, there’s an unknown electricity because it’s  _this_ guy whose name you don’t even know yet, and you already feel your heart racing and short-circuiting that you flounder to find the words that you want to come out of your mouth.  _Fuck, say something, anything—_

He squirms out of his seat. “Shit. I’m sorry, you might think I’m such a creep—”

“No!” You immediately counter—thank the gods—and you look at him straight in his painfully beautiful eyes. “I—uh, I actually think you’re sweet. And fucking charming. And oh my god, I said that out loud didn’t I—”

He laughs out of relief, and you can swear this time that his laughter is made out of pure sunshine and just looking at him makes everything around him ten times brighter. “Really? Even if I admit to you that I was trying all day to talk to you?”

“Well, you’re now talking to me. I’d say mission already accomplished,” you smile. “And this is insane, we don’t even know each other’s names yet.”

“Forgive me, my lady,” he fakes an accent, and seriously—can he stop being adorable for  _once_? “My name is Prompto. Prompto Argentum.”

In turn, you tell him yours; Prompto repeats it, and the way your name sounds in his voice, how he smiles when he says it, and how every fiber of your body aches so beautifully when he does feel startlingly apt. Like everything unravels to make sense.

“I—” he sheepishly begins, his eyes still lingering on you, “would you mind if… I asked you to dance?”

Maybe it is the scent of the roses, or your favorite song suddenly playing in the background—but there it is, happening all at once.

Your heart and soul consumed, all your five senses compromised.


End file.
